


Major Arcana

by ClassicHer



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Gen, basically most characters, only tagging prominent ones until the story can progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-09-27 01:24:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9944132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClassicHer/pseuds/ClassicHer
Summary: Life in the Circle Tower was not easy, and Glenneia Surana did not claim to have it tougher than anyone else. After all, a cage is only a cage if one believes it so. It not only keeps things in; it keeps others out. There is safety in a cage...but nothing lasts forever.A retelling, in parts. A story of freedom, of loyalty, of love, and of course, of origins.





	1. The Circle: Prologue

“Nothing but a liability.”

First Enchanter Irving frowned and ran and hand over his graying beard. “There is no need for such extreme statements, Senior Enchanter. All those gifted with magic belong in the Circle. It is the safest path, and the easiest.”

Before him was Senior Enchanter Maren, Senior Enchanter Sweeney, and Knight-Commander Greagoir. It was quite a crowd for the First Enchanter’s normally lonely office. Maren was a restless woman in her thirties, young for a Senior Enchanter, with deep frown creases between her harshly arching brows. Arms crossed over her chest, nostrils flared, she loomed over Irving’s desk with thunderous disapproval in her black eyes. Greagoir was graying prematurely, due to much stress and discipline required for a man in his position. He stood rigidly straight and observed the argument with an iron-plated gaze.

 _“Easiest?”_ Maren tossed her head and scoffed, not rustling a single hair in her strictly bound bun. “Excuse me, First Enchanter, but I disagree! She is nothing but a liability. With parents like hers—!”

“We have all the more reason to continue with protocol as usual,” Sweeney finally interjected. He was an aging man, but not yet old, and was balding more rapidly by the day. “Maren, surely you cannot disagree. Children need guidance, structure. The Circle can offer this to her. The Alienage is a common location for magic-bearing elves to be found.”

“True, but this is far from common!” Maren placed her hands down on Irving’s desk, leaning in. “First Enchanter, please heed my warning. This will bring nothing but misfortune to the Circle Tower! Send that child back to where she came from and turn a blind eye to this nonsense once and for all.”

“Back to where she came?” Sweeney laughed incredulously. “You cannot be serious. One cannot simply attach an apple back to the branch from which it was plucked! What’s done is done. She is young enough, and will have little memory of the Alienage. Let us accept her as any other.”

“We have argued long enough, and I’ll hear no more of your ridiculous stalling and running-about.” Greagoir, who had been quiet to that point, finally spoke up. He had a presence that, whether one liked him or not, commanded respect. “The Templars await decision on this matter at this very moment.”

“Greagoir, what is your opinion on this matter? Can you add anything to this discussion?” Irving asked. No mage had any great love for Templars, but it was his duty to ask the Knight-Commander of his advice for most things. Greagoir was not unreasonable, but did personify the Templar Order rather well, as far as his ideology went.

“I believe you are all overreacting,” said Greagoir, crossing his arms. He tipped his head back slightly, brandishing the point of his well-groomed beard like a sword. “This is a simple matter, which you have overcomplicated as mages often do. While I would love to debate with you all about this, I have duties to attend, and would like a resolution swiftly.”

“Then what must we do, if we cannot take her in, and we cannot send her back? Ship her across the sea and forget this entire matter?” Maren demanded.

“You cannot mean to condone the murder of a child!” A flicker of real anger lit in Sweeney’s usually mild, kind eyes. “Loyalists are short-sighted, but I never imagined you would suggest something so cruel.”

“How _dare_ you!” Maren exclaimed. “I suggested no such thing!”

“You may as well have!”

“Enough.” Irving stood, and it silenced them all. “I agree with Sweeney. The child will stay, as all children of magic do in this place.”

“First Enchanter…!”

“No, Maren. I’ll hear no more.” He met her steely glare. “We cannot simply refuse to take in a child who has shown magical talent. Bending of rules in this matter does not exist, nor can we simply pretend this never occurred. That is not what we stand for here. Let us welcome this girl with open arms, as we do all mages, and guide her on a path of least harm. Even you cannot dispute this, Maren.”

The woman looked away sharply, inhaled and exhaled a long breath. “I still believe it is too risky. If anyone comes looking for her…”

“They can do nothing.” Sweeney said. “The Circle is the safest place for mages, especially the young ones.”

“Then we are agreed. Greagoir, tell your men to let the poor child in. Send her to the female apprentices’ quarters and see to it she is given food, water, and a bed. The mages will know what to do with her from there.” Irving pinched at his beard. “None of you are to speak of this to her. Put it out of your minds and continue with your lives. Maker willing, she will remember nothing of this terrible introduction to the Circle.”

 _And nothing of her origins_ , he added silently.

* * *

 

Glenneia Surana withdrew a steel spoon from a boiling concoction. It was withered and bent like a giant had crumpled it.

“Huh,” she said.

“If making a potent poison was your intention, you have succeeded.” The supervising potion-master smiled, not unkindly.

“That was not my intention,” she said. “I wished to make an elixir of spirit.”

“Is that so?” The potion-master raised a dark eyebrow. He was a tall, thin elf with a ponytail of dark hair. It was impossible to tell how old he was, and she could not recall his name. “Well, for starters, you will need considerably more spirit essence, and considerably less deathroot.”

Glenneia frowned at the small iron pot in which her potion was being mixed. It had a sickly gray-pink hue, which should have been her first indication something was wrong, since it was supposed to be royal purple. It also smelled like burning shoes. The pan and related apparatuses were all on a large wooden table, amongst other students who were performing similar experiments. Set aside was a bundle of papers and recipes which looked older than the Circle. Glenneia paged through it with mild concern, lifting the delicate yellow papers to find her error.

“I don’t think that potion-mixing is my calling,” she said. “Isn’t there some way to reverse this?”

“Yes, by tossing it out the window and starting again,” the potion-master smirked. “Continue.”

The young mage huffed and slumped her shoulders in defeat. The potions-master laughed and walked away to assist a nearby student whose potion had begun to climb from its dish. Glenneia turned back to continue working her own concoction, with little hope. As a young apprentice, she did not have any source such as a staff, and simply held a hand over the potion to stir and imbue it. She wanted to prove she could perform now, at this critical stage, just beyond her education.

By the count of the mages in the Circle—as she could not recall her true birthday—she was thirteen. Her silvery hair was tied in a short bun, displaying the long, if close-kept tapered ears of an elf. She had mixed feelings about her hair. It had a pleasing hue, true, but it was rather coarse. The tone of her skin matched her hair: very pale, almost shiny pale. When Glenneia had asked why she looked so different from the other elves she knew, the Enchanters had said that her mother had likely been drinking lyrium whilst pregnant with her. Defects were common in such situations, particularly with untrained hedge witches like her mother.

Across the table from her was Jowan. Gangly and awkward, he had already been at the Circle when she had arrived. There was always a sallow yellowish hint to his skin, like he was sick, and he had long, somewhat greasy black hair. Despite other students not liking him very much, she had been somewhat drawn to his kindness and eagerness to please. Currently, he was tossing handfuls of elfroot leaves into his pot, which was letting off noxious clouds of steam.

“Jowan, what are you making?” Glenneia asked, grimacing. “It smells terrible.”

“Oh, it’s, uh,” he wiped his brow, leaning back to observe the hissing liquid. “It was supposed to be a sleeping tonic, but I got a little confused by the instructions. They said to add a pinch of Andraste’s Grace, but it’s a flower, so I pinched a few petals in, and…well.” He gestured at the cloud in front of him.

“If anyone drank that sleeping potion, they would be sleeping forever.”

“A joke!” Jowan laughed. “You must be really annoyed, if you’re down to making jokes.” He sighed, pursing his lips at his potion, which was beginning to swell out of the dish like a loaf of black bread. “Well, if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say that I was never meant to be a great potion master.”

“I don’t think potion-making is for me, either,” she said, sullenly stirring her ill-colored poison with her crumpled spoon. “I’d rather be doing real magic. The older apprentices do very interesting things with invisibility. I’ve heard they can teleport across Thedas simply by drawing on a door with chalk. Don’t you think that would be interesting? Do you think it’s possible?”

“Teleportation?” Jowan winced. “I don’t know…I think I’d be happy just to do one spell correctly. The Senior Enchanters are always making me repeat the same incantations all day. Say I’m _pronouncing it wrong_.”

“All mages have a niche. I think,” she added. “That’s what Senior Enchanter Wynne told me. She said some mages are just better at some things than others, and we just need to find a school that we’re good at. I would like to be good at enchanting things. It sounds like a lot of fun, and I think runestones are very beautiful, don’t you?”

“Easy for you to say, Glen,” he waved at the cloud that was pouring from his dish, which was quickly darkening into smoke. “You’re a prodigy.”  
Glenneia raised her twisted spoon from her dish. “Yes, I see what you mean.”

“Not like—well, you know what I mean. You’ve got a knack for magic. Elves are usually better at it, anyway. It’s not fair.”

She bristled. “There are plenty of talented human mages. First Enchanter Irving is a human!”

“That’s not what I meant! Maker, I meant…oh, uh oh…” he coughed, squinting into the black mass that was dominating half of the table. “Enchanter Varel! Enchanter!”

The potions-master, Varel, had already seen the monstrosity that was Jowan’s “potion”, but had been too busy trying to hex the result of another student’s ill-conceived attempt at magic, a conscious blob of sunset-orange goop crawling across the floor of the library. Said student, a human girl with curls of blonde hair, was watching with horror as the Enchanter stabbed spells at the quivering mass, to no effect.

“Yes—yes, I see you, Jowan!” Enchanter Varel called, shuffling after the blob, and casting a freezing spell behind him at a sudden eruption in another student’s pot. “Put out the Maker-blasted fire, boy! I’m talking to you, Jowan!”

“Oh, right!” Jowan quickly conjured a blast of water to put out the fire beneath the pot. The spell exploded with far too much strength, and Glenneia threw her hands up as water burst across the table, smashing all the measuring tools and glass decanters and various other delicated equipment.

When she lowered her hands and looked around, the room was soaked. Several more Enchanters, drawn by all the commotion, were jogging into the practice hall to hurriedly dry the water before it got to the bookshelves. A few of them were grouped around Enchanter Varel and the strange blob, which had changed trajectory toward a stray puddle of lyrium. As for Glenneia, she was covered in some black substance with the consistency of wet ash and the stench of scorched flesh: the remnants of Jowan’s dish. It wasn’t the first time a day had ended in disaster, but she usually didn’t end up covered in muck. For a moment, she was frozen, stuck with her arms held away from her body, face scrunched up.

Jowan rushed around the table to stand by her. “Glen! I’m sorry, are you all right? I just panicked, I didn’t bring the spell in soon enough…are you all right?”

“Ugh,” she wiped her hands on her robes, smearing the mess everywhere. “It’s all right, Jowan. I’m fine, I guess. This stuff stinks.”

“All right, apprentices,” Enchanter Varel turned around, waving his hands to get their attention. Behind him, his fellow mages were beginning to poke at the orange goo with their staves. “Uh…go back to your quarters for the day and read the next chapter in the texts. Be ready for more practice next time!”

The students grumbled and packed up what belongings weren’t soaked, burnt, or leaving a trail of slime across the floor, and filed out of the chamber. Glenneia had no such things, since they had been obliterated by Jowan’s water blast, and walked out along with the rest. A few kids chuckled at her, drenched and reeking like a dead body, as the whole group of them began heading for the stairs to the second floor. The third floor, where they were currently, housed most of the training chambers and libraries. Above them, Templars trained in techniques to suppress magic and kill mages. Below them, mages lived and worked in the dormitories.

“Glen! Glen, wait,” Jowan caught up to her. She stopped, moving aside so they could talk while the rest of the students walked past, rounding the Circle towards the stairs. “I’m sorry about all that, about…” he gestured awkwardly at her ruined clothes. “Do you want to go to the library together? We can read the scrolls for the class. Maybe you can help me practice?”

“Oh…all right,” Glenneia nodded. “But first I need a bath. This is starting to dry.”

“Of course, of course,” he offered her a weak smile. “You really do smell bad.”

“And whose fault is that?”

They laughed about it, but Jowan stopped first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never published an official work for DAO, and since I've been doing a playthrough recently, I thought I'd give life to one of my favorite characters, Glen. There's a plotline laid out already, and I do know where I'm going with it all. Those looking for a retelling and those looking for a little canon-breaking will find both here. I haven't put any writing out in a couple years, so feel free to comment with thoughts about this. Thanks for reading!


	2. The Circle: Page of Cups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A couple important events, but the last chapter with young Glenneia in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “My mother said I broke her heart...but it was my integrity that was important. Is that so selfish? It sells for so little, but it's all we have left in this place. It is the very last inch of us...but within that inch we are free.” ― Alan Moore, V for Vendetta

The Chantry smelled of dusty books. Most of the Circle smelled of dusty books, but the Chantry was especially pungent. Incense also smoldered in places. Calling it a Chantry was incorrect, as it was just a chapel within the building of Kinloch Hold, but it was usually referred to as the Chantry regardless. Candles burned all around the long room, dripping wax on the stone and heavy red rugs. It was possibly the largest single room in the Circle. It was large enough that the curvature of the Tower was apparent. Two separate entrances led in from the hall outside. Inside, it was quiet in a hushed, holy way, like the Maker Himself would frown if one made too much noise. The Sisters certainly acted like He would, the way they glared at any apprentices being too loud. Brothers there were, too, but very few. Dressed in heavy gold robes, they glided from bookshelf to bookshelf to altar, heads bowed as though in constant prayer, and perhaps they were. Glen thought they looked like big golden birds, flitting around the big room, nesting in the endless scrolls of holy texts, singing their sacred songs. It even sounded a bit like a big birds’ nest, with all the rustling pages like so many feathers.

At the center of the room, against the wall furthest back, the Revered Mother was reciting a passage from _The Sermons of Divine Renata II._ The woman gestured occasionally with a frail hand, shadowed by a massive statue of Andraste. She was a narrow, harsh woman. The crows feet around her eyes and her gray hair betrayed her age, but she still appeared strong enough to arm-wrestle a Templar. Glen, and several other Chantry members and mages, were sitting in the pews. It had been a day since the potions class, and she had done the reading the same night. With a little extra time on her hands, she decided to climb a floor and say a few prayers. Like all apprentices, she had been raised on the Chantry’s doctrine after arriving at the Circle.

“The weakness of mortal will is the great failing of all the Maker's children. We trade our honor as if it were the cheapest of currency. We do not understand what _integrity_ is or what it is truly worth. From this ignorance, original sin was born.” The Revered Mother nodded her head, as if agreeing with Divine Renata II’s words.

Glen clasped her hands together, leaning forward to the edge of the pew. Original sin. That was magic.

The Revered Mother continued, lifting her arms to the heavens. “At some time, each of us has thought, ‘What does it matter if I keep hold of my integrity? I am but one mortal. I am powerless.’ How blind we all are! The virtue of a single slave destroyed the Tevinter Imperium. The dishonor of one man drove the Maker from our sight. I tell you truly, nothing but the integrity of our hearts will win the love of the Maker back to us. It is all the power we shall ever possess to change this world for good or for ill.”

After the sermon, Glen approached the woman, smoothing her coarse hair down. “Your Reverence?”

She turned, raising faint gray eyebrows. “Yes, child?”

“I wanted to tell you how beautiful your sermon was today,” Glen said, bowing her head respectfully. “I enjoyed it very much.”

“Thank you, my dear girl.” The Revered Mother said. “Is there anything else you wished to speak to me about?”

“I…had a question, if that’s all right. If mages were the first to bring terror upon the world, are all mages sinners? Even repentant ones?”

The woman smiled and placed a hand on her arm, just lightly on the shoulder. “The Maker smiles upon all his children. Magic is a force to be tamed in this world like any other. Rage, and jealousy, and other poisonous emotions are just as difficult for some to master. If you truly love the Maker, he will forgive you. It is not your fault that you were cursed with this thing, dear girl.”

Glen looked down. “I am glad to be here, Your Reverence. I do love the Maker, even though I am cursed.”

“Be not burdened by things which you cannot change,” the Revered Mother guided her towards a life-sized statue of Andraste. The bride of the Maker, her pained eyes turned upward, her hands clasped in prayer. “Look upon the prophet. When she began having visions, she first believed it was a terrible burden. In time, she understood it was the voice of the Maker, come to guide her on her true path.”

“Why must we worship the Maker?” Glen said.

With a little tightening around her eyes, the Revered Mother said, “It is the way we were meant to be, child. The Maker has turned his gaze from this world, and only by spreading the Chant of Light to all corners of Thedas will he return and see we have redeemed ourselves. For we were a cruel, blind world, and—“

“What if we wish to worship the Maker without spreading the Chant? And what of the people who do not worship Him, like the elves?”

Another twitch of the brow, a slight puffing of her chest. “You ask many questions.” When Glen did not reply, the Mother sighed and continued, like she was indulging a child waving its hands at shiny objects. “Worshiping the Maker without taking the Chant with you is not true worship. And those peoples who turn their backs from the Light will see their error in time. After all, you are an elf who loves the Maker.”

Glen lowered her eyes. “Yes,” she agreed.

The woman smiled at Glen. “You see, my child. Do not shy from that which you are, that which you fear, simply because it is painful. The Maker speaks in strange ways through all of us. _Trust_ in his will. Above all, know that through your faith, and your _integrity_ , we will all find enlightenment.”

“And never forget,” another voice said behind them. “Magic exists to serve man, and _never_ to rule over him.”

They turned from the statue. Behind them approached a Templar of rank, smiling in that smug way Templars did when they were not being impassive armored statues. He had a round, clean-shaven face and tiny blue eyes. There was not a hair upon his head. To Glen, he looked like a shiny peeled egg with the body of a human. Marching quick-step behind him was a boy, not wearing armor like other Templars. His curly blond hair was combed back with surgical precision, and he held his shoulders back proudly. It was difficult to discern his age; most Templars looked the same to Glen, and she tried not to look at them at all. This one stood out as very young, perhaps five years her senior, no more. As he approached, they made eye contact, but he looked away with a snap of his head, nostrils flaring and ears turning red.

“That is the most important rule,” the older Templar continued, casting a narrow glance at Glen.

“Good ser,” the Revered Mother tipped her head lightly. “Have you come to speak to this dear girl as well? Or perhaps you seek time in prayer.”

“Neither,” he said. “We have had several new recruits come to the Circle recently, and I have been tasked with showing this promising young man around Kinloch Hold. This is the Revered Mother here, boy.”

“Honored, Your Reverence,” the boy quickly stepped forward and bowed so deeply Glen thought his nose touched his knees. “Cullen Rutherford, at your service, now and always.”

“My, what enthusiasm. Welcome to the Circle Tower, child. May you serve the Maker well here. I am Revered Mother Hale. I would introduce you, my dear, but I’m afraid I did not ask your name.” The statement was directed at Glen, who straightened her spine in surprise.

“Oh—Glenneia Surana, Your Reverence. I’m an apprentice.” Glen bowed.

“An elven name, as expected. You are an apprentice here, are you not?”

“Yes, Your Reverence.”

“Very good. Continue your training and I am certain you will lead a wonderful life here in the Tower. Using magic wisely, and in service of the Maker most of all, is the greatest gift a mage can give humanity. For our brother Templar is right: magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.” The Revered Mother set a hand on Glen’s back, frail, with skin beginning to gray. “It may seem painful now, but this law is there to protect everyone, mages included.”

“Well said, Mother Hale,” The older Templar agreed. “This is a lesson you best learn now rather than later, girl. If your instructors have any sense, it’s already been said to you more times than you can count. Once more wouldn’t hurt.”

“Yes, I understand. Thank you both for your wisdom.” Glen bowed twice to each of her elders. On the bow to the Templar, she was briefly overcome with the desire to spit at his shiny-plated feet. Instead, she added, “Please excuse me. I have kept you long enough.”

“You must have studies to attend, I understand,” Mother Hale said. “I hope to see you return soon. Go now, and may the Maker’s light shine upon you.”

* * *

 

Nights in the Circle Tower were quiet. The heavy silence filled the corridors. Like the books about the Fade she had read, it was like the real Tower but warped, slightly different in a strange and disturbing way. Darker, somehow more sinister. Perhaps the Tower was close to the Fade, and carried bits of the dreams and nightmares from that place into those foreboding libraries. Walking through it at night _felt_ like a nightmare. Steps, far away, would echo down the halls, like drops of water in a cave. The Templars watched, always watched, even in the dead of night. Like paintings on the walls they stood, eyes gleaming like chinks of dark stone in the slots of their helmets. Those who chose not to wear helmets still watched, tracking every movement, watching. Always.

There was no true curfew for mages. It was the mages’ Tower, after all, and plenty of Enchanters remained awake deep into the night for varying reasons. But it did not bring Glen any comfort as she walked through the first-floor hallway. In her chest, her heart pounded like an insect trapped in cupped hands. Leaving her bed at night felt like breaking the rules. Like the Knight-Commander would appear from the walls and scold her. Pressing the thought away, she quickened her pace but did not run.

The destination was a library, a regular study space used mostly by apprentices. Towers of books teetered on the wide oak tables, both scarred and damaged from much abuse at the hands of training mages. There were fewer Templars there. Likely the extra security seemed superfluous for a library in the dead of night.

Glenneia lit a candle and pulled up a chair at a table, shuffling close so she could see in the dim light the little flame threw off. From her pocket, she pulled two items: a paring knife stolen from the potions laboratory, and a rough cone of wood about the size of an apple core. Those set on the table, she went to a bookshelf several paces back, in a dim corner. The spines were rough, smooth, wide as an atlas and thin as journals. All manner of magical knowledge was stored in those books, from fundamental theories to advanced incantations. Glen cast a hand over them, reverently touching the uneven leather planes. Some were titled with letters stamped in gold down the side; some were not titled at all. There was little order to the shelves, besides very general categories such as “religion”. But Glen had found a particular book with the spell she was looking for, and had stashed it in a spot she could find. The book she needed was standard—but not for apprentices.

The page she wanted had a folded corner so she could find it immediately. On said page, was an illustration of a runic marking. She arranged the book with the rune under the candle on the table so she could see it clearly. Then, knife in hand and block of wood in the other, she began to carve the rune into the flat end of the cone.

If the Templars were curious or suspicious, they did not show it. It was possible they weren't even watching, or waking. She had heard stories of Templars so tired they had fallen asleep in their armor, but stayed standing, such was the weight and rigidity of the suit. It was amusing, if true, but it had never been witnessed.

It was slow going, chipping away with the very tip of the blade. Twisting and pushing splinters away to make lines in the block. Maybe if she got this to work, she could do her Harrowing early. The youngest true mage in the Tower…the thought was intoxicating. Just thinking about her Harrowing made her jittery with excitement, and a little fear. It seemed eons away now, so far in the future it was as distant as Andraste. If she could do something interesting, impressive, maybe the Senior Enchanters would recognize that she was talented. She could picture it now, that tantalizing test that no one was permitted to speak of. The mystery alone was enough for her to drive at the carving with renewed energy. Just a little further, just a little more…

“Glen!”

She jumped sharply, fumbling both knife and block. The blade slipped from her sweaty palm, straight down and through her thumb. A slice of red pulled open from her nail to the heel of her hand. She gasped and stumbled to her feet, knocking the chair back with a bang like a cannon. The block of wood clattered away, rattling and rolling in a circle to a wobbly stop some feet away. Blood flicked across the table, a line of ruby droplets on the polished oak table. The flame of the candle flickered, reacting to a sudden burst of magical energy.

At the door to the library was Jowan. Skinny and looking gaunt in the scarce light, he squinted at her from the doorway. He was wrapped in a robe and held aloft a candle of his own.

“What are you doing in here in the middle of…is that blood?” The boy’s eyes went to the rune on the page, to the knife on the table, to the blood just about everywhere now. “What is this? What are you doing, Glen?”

“Nothing!” A futile lie.

“Do you think I’m an idiot? You _never_ break rules. Maker, you hardly do anything except study and visit the Chantry. Sneaking out at night might not be strange for some people, but it is for you!”

“It really is nothing, Jowan. I’m just...experimenting. I don’t want to be disturbed, that’s all.”

Jowan walked up to her, glancing over his shoulder. Giving the rune on the page a concerned frown, he whispered, “Are you practicing blood magic?”

It could have been her imagination, but Glen thought she heard the Templars in the room shift. Just a faint rustle of armor, but enough to spear her heart with panic. “I'm not a blood mage!” She insisted. “You startled me when you entered and I cut my hand.”

“Okay, all right…I was just asking. I’ve heard it can make you more powerful, is all, and I thought you of all people might benefit—“

“Oh—shh!” Glen waved a hand at him. “Enough of that! I'm not a blood mage. Saying those things could get me into trouble. Please. I'm really not.”

“I believe you. You’re a _prodigy_ ,” he wiggled his fingers and rolled his eyes. “You wouldn’t need blood magic to be good.”

Glen sighed. All he did was call her a prodigy, even when she flubbed a spell or mispronounced a passage. Meanwhile he could pull off magic that was perfectly acceptable, if a little weak, and called it garbage because it wasn’t perfect. It was part of the reason she wanted to do this alone. The last thing she needed was Jowan thinking she was being over-ambitious or arrogant. All she wanted was some peace and quiet, some time to mess with spells without him whining all the time.

“Don’t give me that again. You’re a good mage, Jowan. Oh, how did you know I was here?”

At that, he bowed his head sheepishly. “I followed you. I woke up to use the lavatory and saw you walk past the men’s dormitories. I’m sorry, that sounds very creepy when I say it now, but I was curious. You’re always so good about obeying the rules. At least, that’s what I thought.”

“This is my one secret. Not much of one, it seems. Ugh…this hurts,” she gripped the wrist of her cut hand, holding it still so she could peer closely at it. “Maybe I can…”

A weak light flickered in her palm, the good one, and she held her hands within about an inch of each other. The cut felt warm, but otherwise remained stubbornly unchanged. All the blood was running down her arm to her elbow, and itched terribly. Frowning, she pushed harder at the healing spell, willing it to work. Another flicker of light and warmth, but no results.

“Maker’s breath,” she huffed, and settled for pressing the long sleeve of her robe into the cut to stem the bleeding. “Prodigy or not, I can barely cast a healing charm.”

Jowan was retrieving the fallen carving. He held knobby chunk of wood between two fingers, and grimaced at it like he was holding a dead rat. “What is this?”

“A top.” Glen stuck out her good hand, palm up. “Give it back, please.” He did. She tucked it back into her pocket, and stepped away from the boy.

“What were you doing to it?” He went to the table and after giving the rune a good look, started flipping through the yellow pages. “This is a book for Enchanters, not apprentices.”

“I was carving a rune in it. I wanted to see if I could enchant it to spin without touching it.” She said.

“Was it working?”

“I didn’t get to try, courtesy of _somebody_ scaring me witless and calling me a blood mage.” Glen said.

Jowan pulled his eyebrows down, also pulling shadows down over his eyes. With the candlelight beneath him, he looked more skeletal than ever. “Playing with magic like this is dangerous, Glen.”

“It’s _not_ blood magic.”

“It’s more than that! You can’t just go romping around, playing with runes and…what-have-you just because you _think_ you can do it! That’s how mages die.” His voice cracked, and he quickly cleared his throat. “Don’t mess with things you don’t understand. You’re only, what, thirteen?”

Glen stomped over to him to snap the book closed. “I do understand it, Jowan. I’m not dabbling in evil arts or hedge magic. This is basic enchantment for mages not ten years older than us! If I didn’t understand it, I wouldn’t be doing it.”

He tossed his hand up, exasperated. “Why are you _doing_ this to begin with? You’re just too good for all us normal apprentices, is that it? I knew you’d go above and beyond me eventually, but you could at least wait until we’ve both had our Harrowings before trying to become the First Enchanter.”

“Oh!” Glen picked up the book, and wanted to throw it, but ended up just lamely setting it back down. “I’m not trying to be better than you. I was just trying something new. Maker, this is why I wanted to do this by myself.”

Jowan sulked at her, but didn’t give a reply immediately. The Templars watched them in silence, their armored figures pressing in at the edges of Glen’s vision, like figures in a nightmare. Feeling again as though she were breaking some rule, she grabbed the book and marched to the shelf to stick it back in its usual space. Later, she would move it elsewhere so Jowan couldn’t. She folded her arms and leaned against the bookshelf.

It was so late at night, it was nearly early. The faintest whisper of blue light crept in through a high, small window. Glen looked up at it, and felt an acute longing to fly up and out, burst out the window like bird and fly away from the Circle Tower forever. If she could get out, she would go everywhere. Reading about the world outside, it seemed endless and chaotic, full of danger and adventure. She would go to the vast arid plains of the Anderfels and explore the wastes. She would go to the warm and wild Antiva, and drink wine with pirates. Perhaps she would go even further, to Par Vollen, or past that, to where the map met the table, and even then, she would keep going.

Of course, she would come back. At her core, although it was fun to imagine going far away, the Circle was her home. There was a love in the books and the worn scrolls and the scorched flagstones that she could never imagine anywhere else. Jowan, all her fellow mages, the First Enchanter, even the Templars: they were her family. Not exciting, but sometimes the excitement was best left for the heroes in the books. It was enough for her just to read about them.

“I’m sorry,” Glen finally said. “You’re right. Experimenting with magic is always foolish. I simply wanted to see if I could do this. If I could do anything original, I mean. There are times, during lessons, I feel this…power, inside me. Like a glass of water that’s too full, stuck at the brim but not spilled over.”

“I feel it, too, you know,” Jowan sat in the chair that she had recently vacated. “I think maybe all mages sense it. To me it’s more like a deep well. I can’t feel the bottom, but it makes me want to find out…I want to know if I can do more than cast a shield charm ten times a day.”

“It’s the Fade.” She said. “The pull.”

“I know. It must feel different to every mage. I wish it would help me out once in a while, or just go away completely. I’m useless at magic, everyone knows it.”

“I’m certain you can do more.” She said. “I know you have talent. If only you weren’t so hard on yourself, you could be just as good as…well, you could be amazing.”

“As good as you? That’s what you meant to say, isn’t it?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Jowan sighed. “No, it’s all right. You’re right. The Enchanters never want to help me the way the way they want to help you, though. Even if I study all my life, it doesn’t give me raw talent.”

“Jowan…”

“Just…just forget about it. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” He crossed his arms and leaned in to the table, staring at the candle Glen had brought in, resting his chin on his arms. “Don’t you wish we could leave this place? Just walk out and never return?”

Glen almost smiled, but did not. Instead, she said, “We can never leave. The Tower is our home.”

“Yes,” he said sharply, nearly cutting her off. “I know.”

The silence that followed was too awkward to bear, and so Glen peeled away from the bookshelf and picked up her candlestick from the table. “I’m going back to sleep. Would you like to walk with me?”

“No,” he said. “The halls frighten me at night. I think I’ll just stay here for a while. Don’t worry,” he added at her twitching eyebrow. “I won’t move your stupid book. I just want some time alone, I suppose. Good night, Glen.”

“Good night, Jowan.”


End file.
